


We Are Dust And Shadows

by TheiaNoire



Category: The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:29:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheiaNoire/pseuds/TheiaNoire
Summary: PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS—the motto of the Nephilim glared at Clary from its place, etched in block letters near the ceiling of her bedroom in Amatis's house. We are dust and shadows.Clary reflects on loss, longing, and the days to come. Set after the attack on the Glass City in book 3.





	We Are Dust And Shadows

PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS—the motto of the Nephilim glared at Clary from its place, etched in block letters near the ceiling of her bedroom in Amatis's house. We are dust and shadows. Jace had explained it to Clary when she'd asked what it meant, what felt like a long time ago, but it wasn't until now did she truly understand its true gravity. To be a Shadowhunter was to fight in a neverending war—and people died in a war.

Clary just had never comprehended that one of those who died would have been a child.

The room was quiet, barren of noise. Clary had been sitting there alone for a while, now, wrapped in the most comfortable thing she could find in Amatis's chest of clothes—an old pair of pajama pants and a soft, worn shirt, its shade of purple contrasting with the shock of her loose red waves. They were put on in a haze, for Clary hadn't really been able to shake herself out of her daze. She had been capable of responding with a clear head in the blur that followed the /incident/, powered by adrenaline pumping viciously through her veins; but now that it was all over, Clary found that she was slipping, inevitably, out of reality.

And yet she was edging closer towards it, too. Clary was a Shadowhunter. This was her world now—horrific and fantastic as it was. The pang in her chest, the weight of grief for the little boy, the horror of losing someone so young, so soon. . . They were all too real and too overwhelming that she needed to take the time for herself to sit down and try to process them all before she could even think about sleeping.

The sudden, harsh reminder of mortality dawned on Clary like a brilliant sunrise; she could imagine it breaking above the Glass City, tinting the demon towers with gold that danced on the surface like flames. The spires were clean and shining in her head, though they had been duller since the wards were taken down in the attacks. She was sitting in a spill of early morning sunlight, in a patch by the window, watching tentatively the modest painting at the wall right across from her as light began to illuminate her room with shades of pink and orange.

Clary looked at the image of the Angel Raziel and the Mortal Instruments in his hands, the triptych motif now familiar to her. The Angel had always seemed terrifying to her—with his golden wings and the angled features that made up his face, but now, somehow, he also seemed sad. Being an artist herself, Clary understood how someone's perception of art was subject to change according to their moods. She was faintly aware of her own mood affecting the way she was interpreting the image—but there was something about the triptych itself that seemed ever-changing, even in its solid consistency.

With a sigh, Clary pushed stray strands of hair out of her eyes and lay on her back, letting her head sink into the pillows and yanking the duvet over her body. Her eyes began fluttering closed, the lingering smell of something sweet and the noiselessness of dawn gently trying to nudge her into much-needed slumber. But she couldn't. It was as though someone had put her thoughts and worries on a loop in her head, driving her on edge. The loss of Max Lightwood had shocked her, too—it still did—though she hadn't been as close to Max as Izzy or Alec or Jace, or his parents had been.

Clary suddenly thought of her own mother, who, as far as she was concerned, was still unconscious under the spell she had committed to herself when Valentine first came after them. They'd found the Book of White, yes, but she had heard nothing back from Magnus since then and she was getting anxious.

It had been a while since Clary had last hugged her mother, and now she found her arms aching to feel Jocelyn's embrace again. It had crossed Clary's mind, several horrifying times, that her mother would never wake up and Clary would lose her forever. Things were looking better, now, but it didn't erase the fact that Clary missed her mother, more than she dared to admit to herself.

Clary wondered how Jocelyn would react—what she would think about all the chaos breaking. What she had to say about Valentine and what she would say about Jace.

The thought of Jocelyn and Valentine and Jace was almost too much for Clary to handle, and she found herself swallowing back a groan. There was no physical reaction for what she felt—there were many good and bad and intense emotions swirling into one, painting images behind her eyelids in colors so bright, they could only exist in her mind.

Clary itched to draw; she hadn't had the time to sketch in a long time. She got off the bed, now, and ransacked the room until she found a blank book, passable as a sketchbook, and graphite hidden in a compartment in the drawers. Clary was almost relieved as she brought them over to the bed, reassume her previous position, and began sketching. Immediately, she started to relax; she poured all her woes into the shades of black upon ivory white, conjuring up images after images in every corner of the page.

The glass city and Brocelind Forest. Sebastian Verlac's face, grimacing, his expression dark and different from the one Clary had thought she'd known. Valentine and the Instruments, the Sword in one hand, the Cup in the other. Jocelyn, sleeping in the hospital, lines of her face drawn with inexplicable knowledge. The Hall of Accords splattered with blood. Isabelle over Max's limp body, the toy soldier held ajar in his small hands. . .

Clary fell asleep not long after, sound and without nightmares. They were safely sketched on the page and they couldn't bother her—for now.


End file.
